Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
That suede ferments is not at all well known
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
Soliloquies predict great things old chum