1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3the Turks said just take anything you please
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14the best of all things to an end must come
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