1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12Bard I adore your endless monologue
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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