At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
In salads all chew grubs before they've wings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
Shallots and sharks'fins face the smould'ring log
Watching manure and compost coalesce
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
The best of all things to an end must come