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
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14the bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum
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