Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
The understanding critic firstly sees
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
In purest cradels tha's how they behave
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum