1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can’t depress
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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