Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
His nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
With gravity at gravity's great cog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
And let you off from your opinions glum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum