The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
The understanding critic firstly sees
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum