He bent right down to pick up his valise
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
He bent right down and well what did he seize
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
In purest cradels tha's how they behave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum