1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13poor reader smile before your lips go numb
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
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