1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14in cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?
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