1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2his exaltation shocked both youth and crone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4normal one aims to be and share the throne
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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