1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone

5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave

9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess

12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum