1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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