1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4that suede ferments is not at all well known
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10what things we did we went the whole darned hog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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