1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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