The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
Shallots and sharks'fins face the smould'ring log
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum