At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
He bent right down and well what did he seize
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum