Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
Old Galileo's Pisan offerings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?