1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14the best of all things to an end must come
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