A False Gallop of Analogies

There is a fine stuffed chavender
A chavender, or chub
That decks the rural pavender,
The pavender, or pub,
Wherein I eat my gravender,
My gravender, or grub.

How good the honest gravender!
How snug the rustic pavender!
From sheets as sweet as lavender,
As lavender, or lub,
I jump into my tavender,
My tavender, or tub.
Alas! for town and clavender,
For business and for club!
They call me from my pavender
Tonight; ay, there's the ravender,
Ay, there comes in the rub!
To leave each blooming shravender,
Each spring-bedizened shrub,
And meet the horsy savender,
The very forward sub,
At dinner at the clavender,
And then at billiards dravender,
At billiards soundly drub
The self-sufficient cavender,
The not ill-meaning cub,
Who me a bear will davender,
A bear unduly dub,
Because I sometimes snavender,
Not too severely snub
His setting right the clavender,
His teaching all the club!

Farewell to peaceful pavender,
My river-dreaming pub,
To sheets as sweet as lavender,
To homely, wholesome gravender,
And you, inspiring chavender,
Stuff'd chavender, or chub.
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