1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3he bent right down and well what did he seize
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Platonic Greece was not so talentless
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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