Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
When dried the terrapin can naught express
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
The bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum