1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3replies like this the dumbstruck brain may tease
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14and lessors’ dates have all too short a sum
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