At five precisely out went La Marquise
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
The understanding critic firstly sees
That suede ferments is not at all well known
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
From cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
On fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb