Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
The wolf devours both sheep and shepherdess
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
And played their mountain croquet jungle chess
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
The best of all things to an end must come