The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Nought can the mouse's timid nibbling stave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The genealogist with field and fess
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
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
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?