Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
On fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum