He bent right down to pick up his valise
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
The understanding critic firstly sees
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb