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He bent right down to pick up his valise
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
On wheels the tourist follows his hostess
Their sculptors did our best our hulks they clog
On fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
Yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum