1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7th’outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11from cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14soliloquies predict great things old chum
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