Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
The learning linguist cameramaniac sings
The nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
The genealogist with field and fess
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum