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
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8the nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14soliloquies predict great things old chum
← OPEN dataBase