1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6rejecting ermine to become a knave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
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