1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3the Turks said just take anything you please
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6rejecting ermine to become a knave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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