He bent right down to pick up his valise
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
Soliloquies predict great things old chum