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
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9Platonic Greece was not so talentless
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14they’re kings we’re mammal-cousins hi ho hum
← OPEN dataBase