1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3old corned-beef’s rusty armour spreads disease
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7th’outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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