Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
With gravity at gravity's great cog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum