1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
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