1He bent right down to pick up his valise
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown

5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave

9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address

12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14the bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum