At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
He bent right down and well what did he seize
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
How it suprised us pale grey underlings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum