1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3the Turks said just take anything you please
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone

5They both are right not untamed mutterings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave

9The genealogist with field and fess
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess

12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum