At five precisely out went La Marquise
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Filching the lolly country thrift helped save
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
And let you off from your opinions glum
The bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum