Miniver Cheevy, Child Of Scorn, Grew Lean While He Assailed The Seasons; He Wept That He Was Ever Born, And He Had Reasons. Miniver Loved The Days Of Old When Swords Were Bright And Steeds Were Prancing; The Vision Of A Warrior Bold Would Set Him Dancing. Miniver Sighed For What Was Not, And Dreamed And Rested From His Labors; He Dreamed Of Thebes And Camelot And Priam'S Neighbors. Miniver Mourned The Ripe Renown That Made So Many A Name So Fragrant; He Mourned Romance, Now On The Town, And Art, A Vagrant. Miniver Loved The Medici, Albeit He Had Never Seen One; He Would Have Sinned Incessantly Could He Have Been One. Miniver Cursed The Commonplace, And Eyed A Khaki Suit With Loathing; He Missed The Mediaeval Grace Of Iron Clothing. Miniver Scorned The Gold He Sought, But Sore Annoyed He Was Without It; Miniver Thought And Thought And Thought And Thought About It. Miniver Cheevy, Born Too Late, Scratched His Head And Kept On Thinking; Miniver Coughed, And Called It Fate, And Kept On Drinking.