At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
That suede ferments is not at all well known
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
And let you off from your opinions glum
The best of all things to an end must come