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
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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