1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6filching the lolly country thrift helped save
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12Bard I adore your endless monologue
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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