1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can’t depress
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
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