1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
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