That the accursed wretch, Deemed it appropriate To talk to me, Eleventh Baron of Windermere, Left me both dumbfounded with rage, And soiled with shame. You see, I had been left, With Mortgaged estates, A couple of incontinent dogs, And a position. Yes, a title, and a reputation. I had expectations, And expensive schooling, Which taught me the three ways, Of being buggered. And the joy, Of mutual masturbation. Thus equipped, I embarked on a stint with the Guards, And my first encounter with women, At Annabels. My distended trousers, Illustrated my inexperience. Over time my Adams apple, Was lost to my jowls, And then the incontrovertible truth, That being a fat, sodomised toff, Was not the basis of a sound marriage. Losing half of what little I had, To an alcoholic Prussian lesbian, Had ten Barons turning in graves, Lost the lot to a Boche, To buy prosthetic sausage, I could hear them rage. So when Bertie, a chum from School, Mentioned underwriting risk at Lloyds, It seemed like a good wheeze, Pay for the new roof, And maybe some dog nappies. Then a load of chaps with dickie lungs, Died prematurely, their peroxided wives, Foreclosed on my seat, And I was left talking to this pleb, At the housing office, about welfare payments. Whilst some of my school "chums", The bright ones, Made a fortune as barristers, Persecuting my class, With the vindictiveness of someone, Who was on the receiving end at school.