1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2his nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4normal one aims to be and share the throne
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6rejecting ermine to become a knave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
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
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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