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
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
6when flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8for burning bushes never fish forgave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12Bard I adore your endless monologue
13the Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
14a wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb
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