So there's this odd poem, that I probably found in Walter de la Mare's Come Hither, which is itself an odd book, called From the Day-book of a Forgotten Prince. That link takes you to the poem as I remember it. But someone has it archived with a bunch of Jean Starr Untermeyer's other poems, and there I find the following variant reading:
He roars out a song in a voice that is sweet-- Of grandeur that's gone, rare viands to eat, And treasure that used to be laid at his feet.
He picks up his phone, faded, wrinkled and torn, Though banded in ermine, moth-eaten and worn, And held at the throat by a twisted old thorn.