1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown

5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive

9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess

12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14they’re kings we’re mammal-cousins hi ho hum