1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone

5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave

9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce

12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum