He bent right down to pick up his valise
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
He bent right down and well what did he seize
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
On fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum