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
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9Platonic Greece was not so talentless
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14the best of all things to an end must come
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