Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
They both are right not untamed mutterings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
The bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum