1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3he bent right down and well what did he seize
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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