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
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9The wolf devours both sheep and shepherdess
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11from cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14they’re kings we’re mammal-cousins hi ho hum
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