1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2his exaltation shocked both youth and crone
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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