From the pomelo grove
‘Oh, my handsome hotspur!
Are these orchids all for me?’
Then Twemlow (like the dork he is):
‘Mais oui, ma petite chérie!’
Stomach churning like a pump,
I never felt so sick:
Twemlow’s bad enough in English
but in French, a total prick.
So I found a happy hammer
and I flung it through the bush,
just in time to save the beldam
from the hotpsur’s Gallic gush.