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

5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave

9Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can’t depress
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess

12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum