1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2his exaltation shocked both youth and crone
3the Turks said just take anything you please
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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