1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6filching the lolly country thrift helped save
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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