Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
When dried the terrapin can naught express
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
The bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum