He bent right down to pick up his valise
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
It's one of many horrid happenings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum