1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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