Prose took the minstrel's verse without a squeeze
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
That suede ferments is not at all well known
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Nought can the mouse's timid nibbling stave
Th'outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
The genealogist with field and fess
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum