At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
Normal one aims to be and share the throne
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
Soliloquies predict great things old chum