At five precisely out went La Marquise
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Nought can the mouse's timid nibbling stave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
The nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
The best of all things to an end must come