Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
They both are right not untamed mutterings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
In salads all chew grubs before they've wings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum