At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
The genealogist with field and fess
With gravity at gravity's great cog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
Soliloquies predict great things old chum