1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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