1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14soliloquies predict great things old chum
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