At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
He bent right down and well what did he seize
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
Bard I adore your endless monologue
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum