1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11from cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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