1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5It’s one of many horrid happenings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9When dried the terrapin can naught express
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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