Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum