At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
In salads all chew grubs before they've wings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
The genealogist with field and fess
With gravity at gravity's great cog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
On fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
The best of all things to an end must come