1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6nought can the mouse’s timid nibbling stave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
9The wolf devours both sheep and shepherdess
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14the bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum
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