1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3he bent right down and well what did he seize
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive
9The genealogist with field and fess
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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