1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3old corned-beef’s rusty armour spreads disease
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone

5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave

9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess

12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14in cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?