Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
Shallots and sharks'fins face the smould'ring log
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
Southern baroque's seductive dialogue
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb