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
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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