The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
The understanding critic firstly sees
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum