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
5It’s one of many horrid happenings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14they’re kings we’re mammal-cousins hi ho hum
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