1The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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