Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
'Ere meanings new to ancient tribes are thrown
To one sweet hour of bliss my memory clings
Whose ocean still-born herrings madly brave
A daring baron pockets precious Mings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
The fasting fakir doesn't smell the less
One tongue will do to keep the verse agog
And played their mountain croquet jungle chess
No need to cart such treasures from the fog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
They're kings we're mammal-cousins hi ho hum