1At five precisely out went La Marquise
2his nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown

5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave

9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes

12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14the best of all things to an end must come