1When one with t’other straightaway agrees
2his nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12Southern baroque’s seductive dialogue
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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