Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
In purest cradels tha's how they behave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum