Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum