1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10what things we did we went the whole darned hog
11from cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14the best of all things to an end must come
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