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
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone

5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6rejecting ermine to become a knave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave

9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address

12Bard I adore your endless monologue
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum