1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2for tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8in purest cradels tha’s how they behave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10shallots and sharks’fins face the smould’ring log
11the colonel’s still escutcheoned in undress
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum
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