1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12Southern baroque’s seductive dialogue
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14the bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum
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