At five precisely out went La Marquise
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?