Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
The nicest kids for strickiest toffees crave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
Ventriloquists be blowed you strike me dumb
The best of all things to an end must come