1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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