1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3old corned-beef’s rusty armour spreads disease
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7the learning linguist cameramaniac sings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Platonic Greece was not so talentless
10a bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
← OPEN dataBase