 | May Fair |  |
The point of points is to astonish;
Hyde Park and Hounslow turn Byronish;
If deuce a word you understand,
The Bard's the surer of the grand.
Out burst the Cerebellum's labours,—
A gush of pistols, poniards, sabres,
Mail, muskets, timbrels, Turkish tunes,
Drums, trumpets, full and half-full moons;
Mustachios, monks, pashas with three tails,—
You'll have them all, in all the details;
With notes on Helicons, Apollos,
And so forth;—all the rest that follows.
Hyde Park and Hounslow turn Byronish;
If deuce a word you understand,
The Bard's the surer of the grand.
Out burst the Cerebellum's labours,—
A gush of pistols, poniards, sabres,
Mail, muskets, timbrels, Turkish tunes,
Drums, trumpets, full and half-full moons;
Mustachios, monks, pashas with three tails,—
You'll have them all, in all the details;
19
And so forth;—all the rest that follows.
| May Fair | |