Classic Poem

Ptolemy, poor Ptolemy,
In a dusty room doth lie—
Beggars for his bedfellows,
Pence upon his eye.
The old men spend his money,
The nursemaids eat his honey—
But no one knows at all, my dear,
Where Ptolemy doth lie.
The moon, a milk-white unicorn,
She chased me round the town:
She chased me up—and chased me down—
She whistled through her horn:
“Go and listen at the keyhole
When the cold wind blows—
It's Ptolemy, poor Ptolemy,
A-snoring through his nose.”