Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
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
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
With gravity at gravity's great cog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum