1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12Bard I adore your endless monologue
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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