1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3he bent right down and well what did he seize
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10a bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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