1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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