Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
His toga rumpled high above his knees
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
When dried the terrapin can naught express
With gravity at gravity's great cog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
The best of all things to an end must come