1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
9Platonic Greece was not so talentless
10what things we did we went the whole darned hog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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