1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10a bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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