1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
9Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can’t depress
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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