1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2that horders of crooks felt they’d more right to own
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
6whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
7proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
8the nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10what things we did we went the whole darned hog
11and played their mountain croquet jungle chess
12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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