At five precisely out went La Marquise
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
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
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum