1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone

5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave

9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess

12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14in cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?