1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2the answer is they could be twins full-grown
3old corned-beef’s rusty armour spreads disease
4normal one aims to be and share the throne
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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