At five precisely out went La Marquise
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum