Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
Shallots and sharks'fins face the smould'ring log
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
And let you off from your opinions glum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum