1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2his exaltation shocked both youth and crone
3replies like this the dumbstruck brain may tease
4’ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6that metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
7an icicle of frozen marrow pings
8to break a rule Britannia’s might might waive
9The genealogist with field and fess
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11on wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
12Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
13with marble souvenirs then fill a slum
14yet from the City’s pie pulled not one plum
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