1From playboy Chance the nymph no longer flees
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4normal one aims to be and share the throne
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7th’outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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