At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
That suede ferments is not at all well known
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
In salads all chew grubs before they've wings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
They're kings we're mammal-cousins hi ho hum