1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2his nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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