1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9The wolf devours both sheep and shepherdess
10a bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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