1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4that suede ferments is not at all well known

5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave

9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce

12Southern baroque’s seductive dialogue
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14the best of all things to an end must come