The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
The genealogist with field and fess
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
Soliloquies predict great things old chum