1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2his nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12Southern baroque’s seductive dialogue
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14they’re kings we’re mammal-cousins hi ho hum
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