Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
He bent right down and well what did he seize
Normal one aims to be and share the throne
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
Southern baroque's seductive dialogue
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
Soliloquies predict great things old chum