Policeman Peter Forth I drag
From his obscure retreat:
He was a merry, genial wag,
Who loved a mad conceit.
If he was asked the time of day
By country bumpkins green,
He not unfrequently would say,
"A quarter past thirteen."
He smoked, but in a modest way
Because he thought he needed it:
he drank a pot of beer a day,
And sometimes he exceeded it.
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