In a Vain but Very Varied Vein

She died intestate, in a wicked state
Upon a moor, beside a restless Moor
Who was a boor, though not in fact a Boer;
They ate liver pâté from the live pate
Of an entrenched trained trencherman whose fate
Was fêtes poorly designed to aid the poor.
The lure of lurid lust, the cross-eyed lour
Of John Locke and light lattes made him late.

The coarse cops found her corpse deep in a copse
That rose above the hedgerows, one white rose
Laid by her nose. As everybody knows,
The barbers, with their barbed, barbaric yawps,
Had shorn Locke's locks, on shore near chandlers' shops
And charnel houses, in striped hose, with hoes.