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
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14soliloquies predict great things old chum
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