At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Filching the lolly country thrift helped save
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
With gravity at gravity's great cog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
Bard I adore your endless monologue
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
They're kings we're mammal-cousins hi ho hum