Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
They both are right not untamed mutterings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The wolf devours both sheep and shepherdess
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum