1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3old corned-beef’s rusty armour spreads disease
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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