At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
The genealogist with field and fess
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
Soliloquies predict great things old chum