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
4normal one aims to be and share the throne
5It’s one of many horrid happenings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14the best of all things to an end must come
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