1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3the Turks said just take anything you please
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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