Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
His toga rumpled high above his knees
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
The genealogist with field and fess
With gravity at gravity's great cog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
And let you off from your opinions glum
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum