Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
And played their mountain croquet jungle chess
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
On fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum