1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3he bent right down and well what did he seize
4and loudly sang off-key without a tone

5The roundabout eats profits made on swings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7the fertile mother changelings drops like kings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave

9Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
10one tongue will do to keep the verse agog
11watching manure and compost coalesce

12Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14fried grilled black pudding’s still the world’s best yum