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

5It’s one of many horrid happenings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave

9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes

12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum