1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7the learning linguist cameramaniac sings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14the best of all things to an end must come
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