Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
Nought can the mouse's timid nibbling stave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
The nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
The genealogist with field and fess
With gravity at gravity's great cog
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
And let you off from your opinions glum
The best of all things to an end must come