Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Her native chauffeur waited in the breeze
One gathers rosebuds or grows old alone
How it suprised us pale grey underlings
Rejecting ermine to become a knave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
For burning bushes never fish forgave
Platonic Greece was not so talentless
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum