He bent right down to pick up his valise
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
His toga rumpled high above his knees
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum