Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
When masons clutch the breath we held on loan
His toga rumpled high above his knees
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
They both are right not untamed mutterings
The North Wind Bites into his architrave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
The genealogist with field and fess
A piercint wit would sprightliest horses flog
While homeward thirsts to each quenched glass say yes
Their sculptors did our best our hulks the clog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
And lessors' dates have all too short a sum