1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10what things we did we went the whole darned hog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
12Southern baroque’s seductive dialogue
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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