A nice bit of Chelsea? Eh? What? Oh! that plucky Lord Chelsea, dear fellow!
Not out, seventy-two; very good!—but do look at that girl in bright yellow!
It seems to add heat to the sun that is beating and broiling our backs on.
Eh? Why doesn't Fair make more use of his capital fast bowler, Jackson?
I'm sure I don't know. Edith Bland all alone there, poor faded forlorn flower!
Yes, Harrow has rather hard luck, and I wish I had mounted a cornflower;
But blue doesn't suit me a bit; and why can't they change colours with seasons,
These Teams? Oh! don't argue it, please, there's no muddle like male creatures' reasons.
That lady in heliotrope graceful? Dear me! why she walks like Pa's heifer,
Eat? Oh! it's too hot; I could lunch on a strawberry plus an iced zephyr.