The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Filching the lolly country thrift helped save
He's gone to London how the echo rings
In purest cradels tha's how they behave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb