At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum