1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12Southern baroque’s seductive dialogue
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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