He bent right down to pick up his valise
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
In salads all chew grubs before they've wings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
Soliloquies predict great things old chum