1Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
2when masons clutch the breath we held on loan
3his toga rumpled high above his knees
4and empty cages show life’s bird has flown
5How it suprised us pale grey underlings
6signalling gauchos very rarely shave
7a daring baron pockets precious Mings
8victorious worms grind all into the grave
9The peasants’s skirts on rainy days she’d tress
10a piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
11watching manure and compost coalesce
12Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
13and let you off from your opinions glum
14for Europe’s glory while Fate’s harpies strum
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