1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7the learning linguist cameramaniac sings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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