1The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3the Turks said just take anything you please
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14the best of all things to an end must come
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