Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
His toga rumpled high above his knees
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
Old Galileo's Pisan offerings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
And let you off from your opinions glum
The best of all things to an end must come