1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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