He bent right down to pick up his valise
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
The understanding critic firstly sees
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
In purest cradels tha's how they behave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
The best of all things to an end must come