Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
The understanding critic firstly sees
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
Nought can the mouse's timid nibbling stave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
The genealogist with field and fess
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
Bard I adore your endless monologue
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum