1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
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
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
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