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
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
Emboggled minds may puff and blow and guess
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
And played their mountain croquet jungle chess
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum