At five precisely out went La Marquise
That hordes of crooks felt they'd more right to own
The understanding critic firstly sees
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
Bard I adore your endless monologue
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
The best of all things to an end must come