The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb