1The acid tongue with gourmet’s expertise
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
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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