1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14the bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum
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