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
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9Platonic Greece was not so talentless
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14they’re kings we’re mammal-cousins hi ho hum
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