Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
The bull's horns ought to dry it like a bone
The Turks said just take anything you please
Which neither time nor tide can long postpone
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
When flame a form to wrath ancestral gave
Th'outrageous Thames a troubled arrow slings
In purest cradels tha's how they behave
Poetic licence needs no strain or stress
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
To prove mamma an adult with a tress
Whiskey will always wake an Irish bog
On fish-slab whale nor seal has never swum
yet from the City's pie pulled not one plum