1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5Old Galileo’s Pisan offerings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14in cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?
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