Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
His toga rumpled high above his knees
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can't depress
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
And let you off from your opinions glum
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum