1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2his exaltation shocked both youth and crone
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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