Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
He bent right down and well what did he seize
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
Old Galileo's Pisan offerings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
The best of all things to an end must come