Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
Normal one aims to be and share the throne
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum