And as you say, he’s seventy-three,
Rich, childless, hates that red-nosed band
Of nephews—Burbot let it be.
The Godmother.
“We ought to ask your sister Kate,”
“Indeed, I shan’t,” Jemima cried,
“She’s given herself such airs of late,
I’m out of patience with her pride.
Proud that her squinting husband (Sam,
You know I hate that little sneak)