1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14the best of all things to an end must come
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