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
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb