At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
That suede ferments is not at all well known
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
Soliloquies predict great things old chum