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
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14in cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?
← OPEN dataBase