1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14soliloquies predict great things old chum
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