Past a grunt if we met on the journey to town
And a nod when I chose to unbend;
But times are mutata, and now I've begun
To cultivate Brown more and more,
For Brown has a son who is friends with the son
Of a man at the Office of War.
When a fog is concealing how matters progress
And editors wearily use
(Upholding the goodly repute of the Press)
A headline from yesterday's news,