Now Spring, sweet laxative of Georgian trains,

Quickens the ink in literary veins,

The Stately Homes of England ope their doors

To piping nancy-boys and crashing Bores,

Where for week-ends the scavengers of letters

Convene to chew the fat about their betters....

Hither flock all the crowd whom love has wrecked

Of intellectuals without intellect

And sexless folk whose sexes intersect....