Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
His toga rumpled high above his knees
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
The genealogist with field and fess
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum