He bent right down to pick up his valise
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
In salads all chew grubs before they've wings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
The genealogist with field and fess
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
The best of all things to an end must come