Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
The Turks said just take anything you please
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
They both are right not untamed mutterings
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
Th'outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
And let you off from your opinions glum
The best of all things to an end must come