1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10a bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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