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Ballade Of A Bulbous Ditto

I regret if I over-react
But I feel myself bound to convey
That my brain is relentlessly racked
By a find in the attic today,
A catalogue, full of objets,
Which is lacking Page 8 and Page 9.
Page 10, though, commences this way:
A ditto, of bulbous design.


What on earth led some fool to extract
The sheet that has now gone astray?
To search is quite fruitless, in fact,
So like hunting a needle in hay
It would powder with premature grey
A far bigger headpiece than mine.
(I am very much tempted to say
A ditto, of bulbous design.)


There's a Volume of PUNCH, cover cracked,
Written-in as Lot 84A;
There's a Hall-runner, green, rubber-backed,
And a Shotgun and stuffed bird of prey
Plus a Print in gilt frame, STAG AT BAY,
But no clue to that last missing line . . .
Just this riddle, re-read with dismay,
A ditto, of bulbous design.




Prince, I fear that your fingers display
The  reverse of a Victory sign . . .
Same to you, then, with knobs on it, nay,



Jerome Betts