At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
The understanding critic firstly sees
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum