Classic Poem

A little country box you boast,
So neat, 'tis cover'd all with dust,
And nought about it to be seen
Except a nettle-bed, that's green.
Your Villa! rural but the name in,
So desert it would breed a famine,
Hither on Sundays you repair,
While heaps of viands load the chair,
With poultry brought from Leadenhall,
And cabbage from the huxster's stall.
'Tis not the country, you must own,
'Tis only London out of town.