1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3he bent right down and well what did he seize
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8the nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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