1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7the learning linguist cameramaniac sings
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
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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