At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?