1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2his exaltation shocked both youth and crone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can’t depress
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14in cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?
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