Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
That suede ferments is not at all well known
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb