Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
Normal one aims to be and share the throne
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum