For Embryo Dons

This young man with flaxen hair,
Laid out like it city square
Or graden.
Loves leaning gently an his cane
Bcharing as though he's the swain
Of Arden.

His hat and coat are bottle green,
His strides the natties ever seen
Or sat in,
His eyes are coloured [unclear: tourquoise] blue,
Like seas the Ancient Mariner kneve
And spat in.

His cigarettes are Turkish blend,
The brand designed in always send
A wench
Off into lists of breathless love,
Where Virtue's cast off like a glore
Or stench.

He rends the "[unclear: Monocle]" and "Man,"
And drives an over-[unclear: powered] sedan.
What ho!
He rotes "Ra-form" like all his tribe.
For Hamilton's a "pucka sahib
You know."

Beware lest you should grove like him.
He watchful in the interim,
For fear
You wake one morning in your bed
And find that you are he instead,
My dear.

—J.D.F.