1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10a bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14the bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum
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