1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3he bent right down and well what did he seize
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7they both are right not unformed smatterings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave
9Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can’t depress
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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