1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5O Parthenon you hold the charger’s strings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11from cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14they’re kings we’re mammal-cousins hi ho hum
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