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
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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