1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4that suede ferments is not at all well known

5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave

9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess

12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum