1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone

5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave

9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess

12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14soliloquies predict great things old chum