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
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8the nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
9The wolf devours both sheep and shepherdess
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14soliloquies predict great things old chum
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