Where each vendor of the spud
Breathes the dust and treads the mud!
Hither come, and daily twine
Brightest herbs and flowers of thine
Into wreaths for those who would
Have ruled (and fooled) us if they could.
Flora, sure, will love to please
England’s Tory Deities!
First bring London Pride and Rue,
These for S—l—sb—y will do—