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
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5It’s one of many horrid happenings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10a bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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