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
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14soliloquies predict great things old chum
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