1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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