Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
In salads all chew grubs before they've wings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
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
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
The best of all things to an end must come