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
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5Old Galileo’s Pisan offerings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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