Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
They both are right not untamed mutterings
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
And let you off from your opinions glum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum