At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
The Turks said just take anything you please
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
The best of all things to an end must come