Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
Normal one aims to be and share the throne
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
They're kings we're mammal-cousins hi ho hum