1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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