Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
His toga rumpled high above his knees
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
O Parthenon you hold the charger's strings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?