1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can’t depress
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14the best of all things to an end must come
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