1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11from cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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