1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2the answer is they could be twins full-grown
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone

5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave

9Platonic Greece was not so talentless
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11watching manure and compost coalesce

12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum