At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
Soliloquies predict great things old chum