1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14in cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?
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