1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2the answer is they could be twins full-grown
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14soliloquies predict great things old chum
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