1From playboy Chance the nymph no longer flees
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
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
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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