Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The answer is they could be twins full-grown
His toga rumpled high above his knees
Normal one aims to be and share the throne
It's one of many horrid happenings
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
He's gone to London how the echo rings
As sleeping-bags the silent landscape pave
Staunch pilgrims longest journeys can't depress
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
Poor Yorick comes to bury not address
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
Though bretzels take the dols from board-room drum
The best of all things to an end must come