1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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