At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
His nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
Soliloquies predict great things old chum