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
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12Bard I adore your endless monologue
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14the best of all things to an end must come
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