1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
9Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can’t depress
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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