1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3old corned-beef’s rusty armour spreads disease
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone

5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave

9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess

12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum