At five precisely out went La Marquise
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
That suede ferments is not at all well known
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
They're kings we're mammal-cousins hi ho hum