At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
The Turks said just take anything you please
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
How it suprised us pale grey underlings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum