At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
His toga rumpled high above his knees
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Filching the lolly country thrift helped save
He's gone to London how the echo rings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum