1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
3forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone

5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6rejecting ermine to become a knave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave

9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess

12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14in cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?