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
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6filching the lolly country thrift helped save
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9Platonic Greece was not so talentless
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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