At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
His toga rumpled high above his knees
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum