Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
That suede ferments is not at all well known
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
In salads all chew grubs before they've wings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
The wolf devours both sheep and shepherdess
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
From cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
The best of all things to an end must come