1At five precisely out went La Marquise
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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