He bent right down to pick up his valise
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?