At five precisely out went La Marquise
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
The understanding critic firstly sees
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Nought can the mouse's timid nibbling stave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
And played their mountain croquet jungle chess
Southern baroque's seductive dialogue
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb