1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2his exaltation shocked both youth and crone
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14the best of all things to an end must come
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