1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2the answer is they could be twins full-grown
3he bent right down and well what did he seize
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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