1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2his exaltation shocked both youth and crone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone

5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave

9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10a bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess

12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb