From playboy Chance the nymph no longer flees
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
In salads all chew grubs before they've wings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum