Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
While sharks to let's say potted shrimps are prone
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
They both are right not unformed smatterings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
It's no good rich men crying Heaven Bless
And starve the sniveling baby like a dog
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
With breaking voice across the Alps they slog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
Fried grilled black pudding's still the world's best yum