To airs that oft have graced the music hall:
Anon when work or sport was put aside,
The fragrant omelette he would deftly roll;
No better man to fry the curling trout,
None with more appetite to make it scarce.
When tired nature seeks repose in bed,
To lie when others rise and calmly rest,
He most surpassed the seven Sleepers’ selves.
This is the sort of rubbish men can write
Who to inanity devote their minds;