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 empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5Old Galileo’s Pisan offerings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7th’outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14they’re kings we’re mammal-cousins hi ho hum
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