Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
His toga rumpled high above his knees
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
How it suprised us pale grey underlings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
They're kings we're mammal-cousins hi ho hum