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 empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10what things we did we went the whole darned hog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14the bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum
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