1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone

5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8as sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave

9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess

12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14the bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum