1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3the understanding critic firstly sees
4while sharks to let’s say potted shrimps are prone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6with sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
7in salads all chew grubs before they’ve wings
8the nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10in indian summers Englishmen drink grog
11poor Yorick comes to bury not address
12No need to cart such treasures from the fog
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14the bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum
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