1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown

5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave

9The genealogist with field and fess
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess

12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14soliloquies predict great things old chum