At five precisely out went La Marquise
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum