1The acid tongue with gourmet’s expertise
2his nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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