1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8the nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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