He bent right down to pick up his valise
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
The genealogist with field and fess
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum