One of 100 Thousand Billion Poems
by Raymond Queneau

At snuff no Cornish sailorman would sneeze
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
A darling baron pockets precious Mings
The nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
In Indian summers Englishmen drink grog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
Fried grilled black pudding's still whe world's best yum