1From playboy Chance the nymph no longer flees
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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