1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2the answer is they could be twins full-grown
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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