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
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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