The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
The understanding critic firstly sees
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
The best of all things to an end must come