Classic Poem

Remember, when the nurses lose you,
And you have passed from Homes to Home,
That all roads lead to Overroads,
And only some of them to Rome.

Come to our beechen field, grown famous,
For putting people on their legs,
Not made of moonshine and of egg-shells,
But made of sunshine and of eggs.

You know where Frances counts her chickens,
And still the eggs in millions mount:
Come down and reckon, dear accountant,
Things for which no-one can account.

You know the fish of this aquarium,
A Carp that waves a friendly fin,
A Winkle that's of Scotch extraction
And not extracted with a pin.

May to the may-tree comes in glory,
Sun to the sun-flowers where they flame,
And Rhoda to the rhodadendrons,
Purple with pride to bear her name.