1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
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
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
14they’re kings we’re mammal-cousins hi ho hum
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