The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
Normal one aims to be and share the throne
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
The nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
The best of all things to an end must come