He bent right down to pick up his valise
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
With gravity at gravity's great cog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum