Lo, The British Am'rican Bat
Did sell its ventures, and that's that
In lands of Russ and Belarus,
For unseen coins, it shan't discuss.
Good Brother Lowe now doth depart,
The Bank Reserve, he'll no more art.
"Work close," he urgeth with last breath,
Then passeth baton, nigh to death.
Alas! In Germany we find,
The craftsmen's output hath declined.
Of hope we drink a bitter ale,
For weaker grows the salesmen's tale.
