1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7the learning linguist cameramaniac sings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14in cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?
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