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
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5Old Galileo’s Pisan offerings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can’t depress
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14they’re kings we’re mammal-cousins hi ho hum
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