At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
In salads all chew grubs before they've wings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
And let you off from your opinions glum
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?