Don Pedro from his shirt has washed the fleas
Licks round carved marble chops on snails full-blown
Upon his old oak chest he cuts his cheese
That suede ferments is not at all well known
Oh how oh how he hates such pilferings
Were pots graffiti'd over by a slave
The fertile mother changelings drops like kings
That every verbal shock aims to deprave
The wolf devours both sheep and shepherdess
With quill white-collared through his life will jog
The colonel's still escutcheoned in undress
One misses cricket hearth and croaking frog
Do bank clerks rule their abacus by thumb
The bell tolls fee-less fi-less fo-less fum