1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10a bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14the best of all things to an end must come
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