1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3old corned-beef’s rusty armour spreads disease
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14the bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum
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