1The acid tongue with gourmet’s expertise
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14they’re kings we’re mammal-cousins hi ho hum
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