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
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14in cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?
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