SONNET

     
     
                ON HEARING A LANDLORD ACCUSED (FALSELY, FOR
          ALL THE BARD CAN SAY) OF NEGLECTING ONE OF THE
          NUMEROUS WHITE HORSES THAT WERE OR WERE NOT
          CONNECTED WITH ALFRED THE GREAT
           If you have picked your lawn of leaves and snails,
     If you have told your valet, even with oaths,
     Once a week or so, to brush your clothes.
     If you have dared to clean your teeth, or nails,
     While the Horse upon the holy mountain fails—
     Then God that Alfred to his earth betrothes
     Send on you screaming all that honour loathes,
     Horsewhipping, Hounsditch, debts, and Daily Mails.
           Can you not even conserve? For if indeed
     The White Horse fades; then closer creeps the fight
     When we shall scour the face of England white,
     Plucking such men as you up like a weed,
     And fling them far beyond a shaft shot right
     When Wessex went to battle for the creed.