1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2the answer is they could be twins full-grown
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone

5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave

9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address

12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum