The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
Old Galileo's Pisan offerings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
The nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
And let you off from your opinions glum
The best of all things to an end must come