Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
Old Galileo's Pisan offerings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
And played their mountain croquet jungle chess
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
The best of all things to an end must come