Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
His nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can't depress
Shallots and sharks'fins face the smould'ring log
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
And let you off from your opinions glum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum