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
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14soliloquies predict great things old chum
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