Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
The understanding critic firstly sees
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
It's one of many horrid happenings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
The peasants's skirts on rainy days she'd tress
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
We'll suffocate before the epilogue
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum