Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
That suede ferments is not at all well known
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
Shallots and sharks'fins face the smould'ring log
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
Soliloquies predict great things old chum