At five precisely out went La Marquise
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum