1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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