Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
Since Elgin left his nostrils in the stone
He bent right down and well what did he seize
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
The wolf devours both sheep and shepherdess
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum