1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4normal one aims to be and share the throne
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
12Bard I adore your endless monologue
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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