Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Signalling gauchos very rarely shave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
Etruscan words which Greece and Rome engrave
The wolf devours both sheep and shepherdess
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum