1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10a bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12Southern baroque’s seductive dialogue
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14the best of all things to an end must come
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