He bent right down to pick up his valise
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
The understanding critic firstly sees
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
In purest cradels tha's how they behave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
The best of all things to an end must come