1At five precisely out went La Marquise
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7the learning linguist cameramaniac sings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10what things we did we went the whole darned hog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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