1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12Southern baroque’s seductive dialogue
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
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