At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
Normal one aims to be and share the throne
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
The genealogist with field and fess
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum