1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14in cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?
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