1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5Old Galileo’s Pisan offerings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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