At five precisely out went La Marquise Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese And loudly sang off-key without a tone Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave The fertile mother changeling drops like kings That every verbal shock aims to deprave Poetic licence needs no strain or stress A piercing wit would sprightliest horses flog And played their mountain croquet jungle chess But I can understand you Brother Gog Poor reader smile before your lips go numb The best of all things to an end must come