1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3old corned-beef’s rusty armour spreads disease
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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