Wise Mr Coxy looked upon our fruit:

'It makes no sense,' he cried. 'Infinite loot

'Makes money meaningless.' Moreover, mould

On Oranges was troubling him. 'We should,

'Then, clear the Rot,' themink averred.

By Jove, he never spoke a truer word.

Fruit now make sense, though probability

Is violated (noted by Miss V).