Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
And empty cages show life's bird has flown
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
Proud death quite il-le-gi-ti-mate-ly stings
Victorious worms grind all into the grave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
With marble souvenirs then fill a slum
The best of all things to an end must come