Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
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
In purest cradels tha's how they behave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
Shallots and sharks'fins face the smould'ring log
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
Bard I adore your endless monologue
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
They're kings we're mammal-cousins hi ho hum