He bent right down to pick up his valise
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
Normal one aims to be and share the throne
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
On fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
Soliloquies predict great things old chum