1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
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
6rejecting ermine to become a knave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave

9The genealogist with field and fess
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes

12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum