The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
The learning linguist cameramaniac sings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
Southern baroque's seductive dialogue
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum