Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
Th'outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
The best of all things to an end must come