At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
Old Galileo's Pisan offerings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
Southern baroque's seductive dialogue
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb