1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6filching the lolly country thrift helped save
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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