From playboy Chance the nymph no longer flees
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
How it suprised us pale grey underlings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
The best of all things to an end must come