Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
He bent right down and well what did he seize
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
It's one of many horrid happenings
That metred rhyme alone can souls enslave
Th'outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
In indian summers Englishmen drink grog
On wheels the tourist follows hos hostess
Lobsters for sale must be our apologue
And let you off from your opinions glum
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum