1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14the bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum
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