1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9Platonic Greece was not so talentless
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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