Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
And let you off from your opinions glum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum