1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone

5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave

9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess

12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb