1The acid tongue with gourmet’s expertise
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14soliloquies predict great things old chum
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