1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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