1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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