At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum