At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
Old Galileo's Pisan offerings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
From cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum