Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
How it suprised us pale grey underlings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
Th'outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
With gravity at gravity's great cog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?