Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
That suede ferments is not at all well known
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
Th'outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
In purest cradels tha's how they behave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum