At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
He bent right down and well what did he seize
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
And played their mountain croquet jungle chess
Southern baroque's seductive dialogue
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
The best of all things to an end must come