From playboy Chance the nymph no longer flees
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
That suede ferments is not at all well known
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
Southern baroque's seductive dialogue
And let you off from your opinions glum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum