He bent right down to pick up his valise
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Nought can the mouse's timid nibbling stave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
With gravity at gravity's great cog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
The best of all things to an end must come