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
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown

5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave

9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess

12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum