Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
For tea cucumber sandwiches a scone
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
That suede ferments is not at all well known
Old Galileo's Pisan offerings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum