1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3he bent right down and well what did he seize
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6rejecting ermine to become a knave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
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