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
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5It’s one of many horrid happenings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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