At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
In salads all chew grubs before they've wings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
Soliloquies predict great things old chum