1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3he bent right down and well what did he seize
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7th’outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
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