1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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