1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2his exaltation shocked both youth and crone
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10a bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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