1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2the answer is they could be twins full-grown
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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