Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
It's one of many horrid happenings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
In salads all chew grubs before they've wings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
And played their mountain croquet jungle chess
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?