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
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone

5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6filching the lolly country thrift helped save
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave

9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess

12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14soliloquies predict great things old chum