1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone

5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave

9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress

12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum