At five precisely out went La Marquise
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
The genealogist with field and fess
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum