1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4that suede ferments is not at all well known

5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave

9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10a bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce

12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum