1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6were pots graffiti’d over by a slave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10with quill white-collared through his life will jog
11from cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
12With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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