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 empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5It’s one of many horrid happenings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10what things we did we went the whole darned hog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
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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