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
4normal one aims to be and share the throne
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14in cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?
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