He bent right down to pick up his valise
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum