Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
That suede ferments is not at all well known
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum