1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7th’outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
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