1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone

5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave

9The genealogist with field and fess
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes

12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14the best of all things to an end must come