Poor Inkspot hath young Néa's hackles raised
And vitriol doth spurt from ev'ry pore
'Twould be a miracle if he unscathed
Return'd with visage fair as 'twas before !
Me fears he'll gaze in woe upon his flank
And see his podumes stricken with the pox
Diagonally blocked and placed in frank
His striles averted; straddles placed in locks
His chances now of winning ? Not a prayer
'Tis never counsel wise to cross young Néa !
Well strike me dumb ! Despite my warnings dire
And Néa's verbal lamming of the chap
Young Inkspot hath cross'd first the blessèd wire
And wrought himself a vict'ry free from hap.
Pure skilful play; A coup de grâce serene
Hath brought him to this situation pleasant
Such moves delight the audience unseen
Who echo, scream and shout "Mornington Crescent" !
And so the game is done; And though 'tis hard
We must bid fond adieu unto the Bard