Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
Th'outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
And let you off from your opinions glum
They're kings we're mammal-cousins hi ho hum