1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone

5Old Galileo’s Pisan offerings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave

9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11watching manure and compost coalesce

12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum