| Garden Party held today, invites call the debs to play,
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| social climbers polish ladders, wayward sons again have fathers,
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| Edgy eggs and queing cumbers, rudely wakened from their slumber,
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| time has come again for slaughter on the lawns by still
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| Cam
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| waters.
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| Champagne corks are firing at the sun again
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| Swooping swallows chased by violins again
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| Straafed by Strauss they sulk in crumbling eaves again.
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| Apertifs consumed en masse display their owners on the grass
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| Couples loiter in the cloisters, social leeches quoting Chaucer.
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| Doctor’s son a parson’s daughter where why not and should they oughta
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| Please don’t lie on the grass, unless accompanied by a fellow,
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| May I be so bold as to suggest Othello.
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| Punting on the Cam is jolly fun they say
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| Beagling on the downs Oh please come they say
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| Rugger is the tops a game for men they say.
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| Angie chalks another blue, mother smiles she did it too
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| Chitters chat and gossips lash, posers pose pressmen flash.
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| Smiles polluted with false charm, locking onto Royal arms,
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| Society columns now ensured, return to mingle with the crowds
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| Oh what a crowd. |