Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
That horders of crooks felt they'd more right to own
Forms shadowy with indecision wheeze
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
The frisian Isles my friends are cherised things
With sombre thoughts they grimly line the nave
An icicle of frozen marrow pings
Thou homestead hillside woodland rock and cave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
What things we did we went the whole darned hog
Socrates watched his hemlock effervesce
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
Where no one bothered how one warmed one's bum
In cognac brandy is Bacardi rum?