1The acid tongue with gourmet’s expertise
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone

5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave

9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress

12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14the best of all things to an end must come