1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8the nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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