Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
His exaltation shocked both youth and crone
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
Nought can the mouse's timid nibbling stave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can't depress
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
And played their mountain croquet jungle chess
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
And let you off from your opinions glum
Soliloquies predict great things old chum