Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
Normal one aims to be and share the throne
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
Th'outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
Soliloquies predict great things old chum