Chase them from London’s pubs, and bid them go
Across the foam, to lunch with Clemenceau!
Chase them with odorous eggs and hunks of cheese!
Be quiet, Muse, I will not sing of these.
Of all the Georgian and Edwardian potes,
Of all the Mile End Yidds in velvet coats,
Of all the sets, the circles and the cliques
Who boost each other’s works in their critiques,
Of all on whom E. M. has ever smiled;
Of all whom Galloway has ever kyled;