1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2the answer is they could be twins full-grown
3her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
4the thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
5To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7such merchandise a melancholy brings
8thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
9Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11while homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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