1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown

5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave

9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress

12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb