The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
His toga rumpled high above his knees
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
The genealogist with field and fess
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
The best of all things to an end must come