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 frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
Nought can the mouse's timid nibbling stave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
Soliloquies predict great things old chum