Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
The bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum