The man who got in at Blackfriars

Was smoking the foulest of briars,

But it went out all right—

Could I give him a light?—

Hadn't got one—well, all men are liars.

I've frequently noticed the Temple

Is a place there are not enough rhymes to;

And that's why I've made

This verse somewhat blank,

And rather disregarded the metre.

How do you pronounce Charing Cross?

It's a point where I'm quite at a loss.

Some people, of course,

Would rhyme it with "horse,"

But I always rhyme it with "hoss."

A woman at Westminster Bridge

Had got just a speck on the ridge

Of her Romanesque nose.

"It's a black, I suppose,"

She observed. Then it flew—'twas a midge.

One man from the Park of St. James,

Had really the loftiest aims;

In the hat-rack he sat,

Used my hair as a mat,

And when I demurred called me names.

I bought from the stall at Victoria

A horrible sixpenny story, a

Book of a kind

It pained me to find

For sale at our English emporia.

I found when I got to Sloane Square

That my ticket was gone; my despair

Was awful to see,

Till at last to my glee

I looked in my hat—it was there!