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
4normal one aims to be and share the throne
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14the best of all things to an end must come
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