1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2his exaltation shocked both youth and crone
3old corned-beef’s rusty armour spreads disease
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12Southern baroque’s seductive dialogue
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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