1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone

5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7th’outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave

9The genealogist with field and fess
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes

12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14in cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?