1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14the best of all things to an end must come
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