1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6rejecting ermine to become a knave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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