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
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12Bard I adore your endless monologue
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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