Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
They both are right not untamed mutterings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
Th'outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
Southern baroque's seductive dialogue
And let you off from your opinions glum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum