1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2his nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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