1At five precisely out went La Marquise
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3he bent right down and well what did he seize
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown

5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave

9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes

12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14the best of all things to an end must come