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
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6rejecting ermine to become a knave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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