1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6rejecting ermine to become a knave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive
9Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can’t depress
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12Bard I adore your endless monologue
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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