At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum