Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
The genealogist with field and fess
Shallots and sharks'fins face the smould'ring log
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?