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
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone

5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7the learning linguist cameramaniac sings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave

9The genealogist with field and fess
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess

12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum