At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
The understanding critic firstly sees
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
Th'outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?