Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
Bard I adore your endless monologue
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum