1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3the Turks said just take anything you please
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14the best of all things to an end must come
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