1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6filching the lolly country thrift helped save
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14the best of all things to an end must come
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