1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2his exaltation shocked both youth and crone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6rejecting ermine to become a knave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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