1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2his nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
9The fasting fakir doesn’t smell the less
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13on fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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