1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2his exaltation shocked both youth and crone
3he bent right down and well what did he seize
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
14the best of all things to an end must come
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