The tail-coated banqueting maitre d'hotel Proffers a napkin round potato crisps.
I wave the thing away, but later think That they were very likely rather good, Far above even the packets sold by Marks, The venue being a room at the Savoy.
Not many chances now remain to try The delicacies of the Baghdad of the West, Being, as I am, merely a year or two From total superannuation. I Seem to myself more than a bit blase.
Though if this is giving up the world, declining To sully scotch and soda with sliced, fried spuds, No monstrous hardships wait for me hereafter. Roy Fuller•