1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14soliloquies predict great things old chum
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