1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5Old Galileo’s Pisan offerings
6rejecting ermine to become a knave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8the nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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