From playboy Chance the nymph no longer flees
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
He bent right down and well what did he seize
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Nought can the mouse's timid nibbling stave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum