1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5Old Galileo’s Pisan offerings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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