Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
Through snobbish growing round her hemline zone
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
With cherry-pips his cottage floor is sown
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
In salads all chew grubs before they've wings
Till firemen come with hose-piped tidal wave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
A bird-brain banquet melts bold Mistress Mog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Poor reader smile before your lips go numb
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum