1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown

5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6rejecting ermine to become a knave
7he’s gone to London how the echo rings
8till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave

9The genealogist with field and fess
10or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress

12We’ll suffocate before the epilogue
13suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum