Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
His toga rumpled high above his knees
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
The wolf devours both sheep and shepherdess
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
On fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
The bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum