Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
The Turks said just take anything you please
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum