1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8the nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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