Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
The understanding critic firstly sees
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
The nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum