1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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