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
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10what things we did we went the whole darned hog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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