The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
His nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
He bent right down and well what did he seize
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
They both are right not untamed mutterings
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum