Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
The understanding critic firstly sees
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
It's one of many horrid happenings
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
Such merchandise a melancholy brings
To break a rule Britannia's might might waive
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
Watching manure and compost coalesce
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
The Taj Mahal has trinkets spice and gum
The bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum