Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
Southern baroque's seductive dialogue
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
They're kings we're mammal-cousins hi ho hum