Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
His toga rumpled high above his knees
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
The genealogist with field and fess
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
From cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum