1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
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