Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
His nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
His toga rumpled high above his knees
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
From cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
Southern baroque's seductive dialogue
On fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?