Sing me, I said, O Muse, and sound the trump
For him not least among our noble tars
Who first on tropic isle was made to jump
By reason of a pericranial thump
And prospect of a galaxy of stars.
And there in green retreat by coral chained
Beheld the vision of the fibrous nut,
And drank the nectar that its shell contained,
And knew the goal accomplished and disdained
The nasty skin-wound on his occiput.