The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
The best of all things to an end must come