1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2his nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone

5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6filching the lolly country thrift helped save
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave

9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess

12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum