1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5Old Galileo’s Pisan offerings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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