Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
It's one of many horrid happenings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum