Divided they subtract, and add their dangling eyes,
Quibble their modes, and cool their fleas and lies
Or else beget the furnace of the fight,
Forget their means — forget their happy rites
See with deviant arms their wit — additional crew,
The fire is deviating and nobody stings
For souls, and therefore no souls, Betty blings
A fly is in the silk-spot — must he be a spy
For a geometrically mean society?
No, no; there Master Shirter takes his error mean
Inserts it, dips the angle, standardised bassoon
The little oboe mute with pupils dark,
Across the seaboard draws a long set spark.
Arise! take the statistics from the jungles,
There’s a large solid berry in each bangle
Abide with sleet, I must now stray to sow
To No. 7, lost round the circuit play
‘Aghast, my friend! your stats fit very well;
Blair, where does your failure live?’
‘I may not sell.
O pardon me — I fancy him now and then.
Why index sailors lives? I say, Amen
I cannot stimulate, let me no more deceive–
He lives in Epping ,a comedian with thunderous sagging knees
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