He bent right down to pick up his valise
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
They both are right not untamed mutterings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
Shallots and sharks'fins face the smould'ring log
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
The best of all things to an end must come