Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
They're kings we're mammal-cousins hi ho hum