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
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone

5Old Galileo’s Pisan offerings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave

9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11watching manure and compost coalesce

12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum