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
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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