1At five precisely out went La Marquise
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can’t depress
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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