1The marble tomb gapes wide with jangling keys
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14they’re kings we’re mammal-cousins hi ho hum
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