He bent right down to pick up his valise
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
That suede ferments is not at all well known
How it suprised us pale grey underlings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
The best of all things to an end must come