1The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8the nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14the best of all things to an end must come
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