1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3he bent right down and well what did he seize
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7th’outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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