I should still from your area, dear, never depart,
But notice each dish on the sill;
And if in the safe there were only sheep’s heart,
I should gull you—for you’re verdant still.
It is not while cold pigeon pies are your own,
Or you spill master’s cask of best beer,
That the faith of a p’liceman can always be known,
That’s all gammon, you know, Susan dear.
For the peeler that’s steadfast of course never lets
Life’s poetry mix with its prose;