1The acid tongue with gourmet’s expertise
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
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
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