Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
Th'outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
The nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum