1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6rejecting ermine to become a knave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10what things we did we went the whole darned hog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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