Collected Poems
The Hon. Mrs Tweedscantie
The Hon. Mrs Tweedscantie
Her bridge? Gad, sir, rotten.
Her golf? Best forgotten.
Her fishing? Well, frantic.
Her hunting? An antic.
Her shooting? Oh, nervy.
Her archery? Scurvy.
Her billiards? Just
pokey —
But crikey, her croquet!