Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
Bard I adore your endless monologue
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb