1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4with cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
5And yet ’twas he the beggar Fate just flings
6the North Wind Bites into his architrave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8that every verbal shock aims to deprave
9It’s no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
10and starve the sniveling baby like a dog
11to prove mamma an adult with a tress
12But I can understand you Brogher Gog
13do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
14in cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?
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