Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
His nasal ecstasy beats best Cologne
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
The thumb- and finger-prints of Al Capone
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
In purest cradels tha's how they behave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
With gravity at gravity's great cog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
Southern baroque's seductive dialogue
On fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
They're kings we're mammal-cousins hi ho hum