1The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone

5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6filching the lolly country thrift helped save
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
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess

12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb