At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
His nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum