The wild horse champs the Parthenon's top frieze
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
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
Filching the lolly country thrift helped save
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
Soliloquies predict great things old chum