1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2his exaltation shocked both youth and crone
3the showman gargles fire and sword with ease
4one gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7th’outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
8the nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
9The genealogist with field and fess
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11the country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
12One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
13where no one bothered how one warmed one’s bum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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