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
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7th’outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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