1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11from cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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