1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2his exaltation shocked both youth and crone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
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
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12Southern baroque’s seductive dialogue
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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