1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2his exaltation shocked both youth and crone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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