Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
Normal one aims to be and share the throne
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
Nought can the mouse's timid nibbling stave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
The best of all things to an end must come