Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
His toga rumpled high above his knees
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
It's one of many horrid happenings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
And played their mountain croquet jungle chess
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum