Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
The genealogist with field and fess
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum