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
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown

5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave

9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce

12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14the best of all things to an end must come