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
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can’t depress
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
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