The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
His toga rumpled high above his knees
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
How it suprised us pale grey underlings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The genealogist with field and fess
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?