1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6rejecting ermine to become a knave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12Bard I adore your endless monologue
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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