At five precisely out went La Marquise
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
The learning linguist cameramaniac sings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum