"Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
				  Grew lean when he assailed the seasons;
				He wept that he was ever born,
				  And he had reasons.

				Miniver loved the days of old
				  When swords were bright and steeds were
				    prancing;
				The vision of a warrior bold
				  Would set him dancing.

				Miniver sighed for what was not,
				  And dreamed, and rested from his labors;
				He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,
				  And Priam's neighbors.

				Miniver mourned the ripe renown
				  That made so many a name so fragrant;
				He mourned Romance, now on the town,
				  And Art, a vagrant.

				Miniver loved the Medici,
				  Albeit he had never seen one;
				He would have sinned incessantly
				  Could he have been one.

				Miniver cursed the commonplace
				  And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;
				He missed the mediaeval grace
				 Of iron clothing.

				Miniver scorned the gold he sought,
				  But sore annoyed was he without it;
				Miniver thought, and thought, and thought,
				  And thought about it.

				Miniver Cheevy, born too late,
				  Scratched his head and kept on thinking:
				Miniver coughed, and called it fate,
				  And kept on drinking."