He bent right down to pick up his valise
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
Soliloquies predict great things old chum