He bent right down to pick up his valise
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
Southern baroque's seductive dialogue
On fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
The bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum