1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone

5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave

9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress

12Southern baroque’s seductive dialogue
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14they’re kings we’re mammal-cousins hi ho hum