At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
Old Galileo's Pisan offerings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
The genealogist with field and fess
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
Bard I adore your endless monologue
And let you off from your opinions glum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum