Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
The showman gargles fire and sword with ease
And loudly sang off-key without a tone
And yet 'twas he the beggar Fate just flings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
Or grinning like a pale-faced golliwog
The country lane just thrives on farmyard mess
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Suits lisping Spanish tongues for whom say some
They're kings we're mammal-cousins hi ho hum