Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
He bent right down and well what did he seize
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum