1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
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