He bent right down to pick up his valise
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
The understanding critic firstly sees
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum