From playboy Chance the nymph no longer flees
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
He bent right down and well what did he seize
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
With gravity at gravity's great cog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum