1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2his nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4which neither time nor tide can long postpone
5It’s one of many horrid happenings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
← OPEN dataBase