1At five precisely out went La Marquise
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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