Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
That suede ferments is not at all well known
It's one of many horrid happenings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
And let you off from your opinions glum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum