1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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