1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone

5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave

9Platonic Greece was not so talentless
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress

12Bard I adore your endless monologue
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum