1When one with t’other straightaway agrees
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5It’s one of many horrid happenings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
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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