1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3he bent right down and well what did he seize
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14the best of all things to an end must come
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