1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6filching the lolly country thrift helped save
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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