1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7th’outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10a bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
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