1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3old corned-beef’s rusty armour spreads disease
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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