1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
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