Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
It's one of many horrid happenings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
In purest cradels tha's how they behave
The genealogist with field and fess
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
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