1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone

5Old Galileo’s Pisan offerings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave

9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes

12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14in cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?