1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6rejecting ermine to become a knave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9Platonic Greece was not so talentless
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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