1The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4normal one aims to be and share the throne
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6rejecting ermine to become a knave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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