Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
His toga rumpled high above his knees
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum