The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
The understanding critic firstly sees
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Nought can the mouse's timid nibbling stave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
And let you off from your opinions glum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum