The rain may rain at Penge;
From low-hung skies the dawn may rise
Broodingly on Stonehenge.
Knee-deep in clover the lambs at Dover
Nibble awhile and stare;
But there's only one place in the world for me,
Berkeley--Berkeley Square.

And so on, down to that magnificent last verse:

The skylark triumphs from the blue,
Above the barley fields at Loo,
The blackbird whistles loud and clear
Upon the hills at Windermere;
But oh, I simply LOVE the way
Our organ-grinder plays all day!

Lord Poldoodle rises to introduce Mr. Montagu Mott.

"Mr. Mott," he says, "is, I am told, our leading exponent of what is
called _vers libre_, which means--well, you will see what it means
directly."

Mr. Mott, a very ugly little man, who tries to give you the impression
that he is being ugly on purpose, and could easily be beautiful if he
were not above all that sort of thing, announces the title of his
masterpiece. It is called "Why Is the Fat Woman's Face So Red?" Well,
what else _could_ you call it?

Why is the fat woman's face so red?