Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
The Turks said just take anything you please
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
They both are right not untamed mutterings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb