1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9The wolf devours both sheep and shepherdess
10a bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14the best of all things to an end must come
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