He bent right down to pick up his valise
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
The bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum