The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
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
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum