The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
Normal one aims to be and share the throne
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum