1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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