He bent right down to pick up his valise
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
Normal one aims to be and share the throne
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
From cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb