1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
9Platonic Greece was not so talentless
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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