He dwells in the centre of London's wide town,
On his head near-white curls, on his back near-black gown,
And this small critic wielding his delicate pen
hurries back-to-front progress; grants smiles to old men.
A farmer, his father, whose house far and near
was the boast of the country for excellent cheer,
For thirty smooth years did he thrive on his farm,
The genius of plenty preserved him from harm.
Then the small town of Oxford made many demands,
All purses are finite in ill-advised hands,
His eldest son, only son, rustic and raw,
decided he wanted to learn about law.
Then Dad had to borrow and steal to survive,
His fingers as busy as bees in a hive,
He himself, had always been free with his money,
But where is the bee that makes twelve carat honey?
Now nothing in purse and nothing in hand,
Who once had twelve reapers working the land,
For laws are like teats on a Jersey cows udder,
they cant stand alone; they must lean on each other!
On his head near-white curls, on his back near-black gown,
And this small critic wielding his delicate pen
hurries back-to-front progress; grants smiles to old men.
A farmer, his father, whose house far and near
was the boast of the country for excellent cheer,
For thirty smooth years did he thrive on his farm,
The genius of plenty preserved him from harm.
Then the small town of Oxford made many demands,
All purses are finite in ill-advised hands,
His eldest son, only son, rustic and raw,
decided he wanted to learn about law.
Then Dad had to borrow and steal to survive,
His fingers as busy as bees in a hive,
He himself, had always been free with his money,
But where is the bee that makes twelve carat honey?
Now nothing in purse and nothing in hand,
Who once had twelve reapers working the land,
For laws are like teats on a Jersey cows udder,
they cant stand alone; they must lean on each other!
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