From playboy Chance the nymph no longer flees
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
He bent right down and well what did he seize
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The genealogist with field and fess
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
The bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum