At five precisely out went La Marquise
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Nought can the mouse's timid nibbling stave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum