At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
In purest cradels tha's how they behave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
And let you off from your opinions glum
They're kings we're mammal-cousins hi ho hum