1At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
← OPEN dataBase