At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum