1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3he bent right down and well what did he seize
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7th’outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10a bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12Southern baroque’s seductive dialogue
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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