He bent right down to pick up his valise
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?