1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown

5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave

9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11watching manure and compost coalesce

12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14the best of all things to an end must come