1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7the learning linguist cameramaniac sings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14soliloquies predict great things old chum
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