Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
Bard I adore your endless monologue
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb