1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2the answer is they could be twins full-grown
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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