1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5Old Galileo’s Pisan offerings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7th’outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
14the best of all things to an end must come
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