1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2the answer is they could be twins full-grown
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone

5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave

9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess

12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum