1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3old corned-beef’s rusty armour spreads disease
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown

5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6filching the lolly country thrift helped save
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave

9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress

12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum