The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
The genealogist with field and fess
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
The best of all things to an end must come