Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
That suede ferments is not at all well known
They both are right not untamed mutterings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
From cool Parnassus down to wild Loch Ness
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
On fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum