1Prose took the minstrel’s verse without a squeeze
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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