1The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
2his exaltation shocked both youth and crone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8the nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14soliloquies predict great things old chum
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