The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
The Turks said just take anything you please
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
It's one of many horrid happenings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
On fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum