1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10a bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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