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
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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