He bent right down to pick up his valise
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
Nought can the mouse's timid nibbling stave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The wolf devours both sheep and shepherdess
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum