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
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can’t depress
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12Bard I adore your endless monologue
13ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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