1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Platonic Greece was not so talentless
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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