1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone

5It’s one of many horrid happenings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave

9The wolf devours both sheep and shepherdess
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress

12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum