1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2his exaltation shocked both youth and crone
3he bent right down and well what did he seize
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10a bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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