Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
How it suprised us pale grey underlings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
Southern baroque's seductive dialogue
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
Soliloquies predict great things old chum