1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2his nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10with gravity at gravity’s great cog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14soliloquies predict great things old chum
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