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
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone

5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive

9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess

12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum