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
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7th’outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12Bard I adore your endless monologue
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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