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
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5Old Galileo’s Pisan offerings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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