He bent right down to pick up his valise
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
Th'outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum