1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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