1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7the learning linguist cameramaniac sings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14the best of all things to an end must come
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