1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3the Turks said just take anything you please
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8the nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14the best of all things to an end must come
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