He bent right down to pick up his valise
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
How it suprised us pale grey underlings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
Th'outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
The best of all things to an end must come