Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
The understanding critic firstly sees
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
And played their mountain croquet jungle chess
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum