Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
The roundabout eats profits made on swings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
Southern baroque's seductive dialogue
And let you off from your opinions glum
A wise loaf always knows its humblest crumb