Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
Old corned-beef's rusty armour spreads disease
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
In purest cradels tha's how they behave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
For Europe's glory while Fate's harpies strum