1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2his nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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