Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
His toga rumpled high above his knees
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
How it suprised us pale grey underlings
Nought can the mouse's timid nibbling stave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
But I can understand you Brogher Gog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
Soliloquies predict great things old chum