1The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
← OPEN dataBase