1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2the bull’s horns ought to dry it like a bone
3he bent right down and well what did he seize
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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